“Well, that’s something,” Erik says.
It’s more than I usually have. “But what now?”
“That’s the easy part. We go to the Icebox.”
Most of the house has retired for the evening. There’s no way to procure a security detail to leave the premises at this hour and Kincaid has left strict instructions that I can’t leave anyway. But thirty minutes later we’re sitting in a crawler. I’ve traded my skirt and blouse for one of the few practical outfits Kincaid has supplied me with: a mink coat layered over a flowing silk tunic and close-fitting black trousers with supple black leather boots that reach my knees. There are a few credits crammed in my pocket—the leftovers from the items we pawned upon our arrival here. The Icebox is down through the mountains, and it sprawls around the estate like a metro built on a tributary.
“So you stole a crawler?” I ask.
“I borrowed it,” Erik says.
“Without permission,” I add.
“Flexible morals,” we both say at the same time.
“Jinx,” Erik says.
“Uh-oh, bad luck for me,” I say.
“Nah,” he says. “In Saxun, it means you owe me something.”
“That sounds like trouble,” I say, unsure I want to be further in Erik’s debt. “What do I owe you?”
Erik shoots me a wink from the driver’s seat. “I’ll think of something. So what now?”
“We figure out…” I pause. I have no idea what we need to figure out next.
“Good plan,” he says.
“I’m known for my high-quality planning skills.”
* * *
The grey market is as delightful as I remember. But Erik says nothing when I toss a few credits to a refugee begging on the sidewalk.
“I don’t care how he uses it,” I say, suddenly self-conscious of my move. “He needs it more than I do.”
“I’m not judging you,” he says. “He probably does need it more than you do.”
He smiles so genuinely then that my insecurity melts, replaced by something much warmer that tugs at me.
Something that forces me to turn away.
“Wait,” I say, twisting back toward the opposite direction, returning to the refugee.
“Ma’am.” The refugee tips an imaginary hat at me.
“You’re a refugee.” I point to the scrawl of information on his makeshift sign. “How did you get here from Arras?”
The beggar’s eyes dart from me to Erik and back again. “Don’t remember.”
“I promise,” I start, squatting down to him, “we’re only looking for one to use ourselves. We need to go back.”
His eyebrows tilt in surprise and he mumbles a few unintelligible words that sound like oaths.
“Please,” I press, reaching out to touch his hand.
“There’s a depot in the grey market. Find the speakeasy on First,” he says, but he grabs my hand with sudden passion. “You can’t go back. It’s suicide.”
I pull my hand away, managing a smile.
“Come on,” Erik says, offering me his hand. I accept it, thanking the refugee for his information. The man’s face stays gray in the halogen of the fading lighting system. We have enough time to find the bar he’s talking about, on First Avenue, before the streets go dark at curfew.
“Want to grab a drink?” Erik asks, threading my arm around his.
“Erik, you read my mind.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SPEAKEASY IS DARK, LIT BY SMALL solar sconces along the walls. High booths afford their occupants privacy, and a few eyes twitch up to meet my curious gaze as we pass each booth. We both immediately look away, uncomfortable. This isn’t the kind of place you come to make friends. Erik’s hand presses into my upper arm, shepherding me forward until we find an empty booth near the back. I sit down. Erik slides in, hesitating for a second before he scoots right next to me.
“It’s better if we look like we’re together,” he says.
“Better for who?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow, challenging him to come up with a reasonable response.
“For both of us,” he says. “People don’t bother couples on dates.”
“Ahh,” I say with a sigh. “Sure.”
“Plus, you make me look good.”
I frown, but he hangs an arm casually around my shoulder. He’s pretending, but I can’t help but realize I like how his arm feels there. Safe, warm.
“What’s this?” Erik says. He traces the crook of my elbow.
His fingertips sear my skin, and I gasp, shaking my head, trying to focus. Dark flecks pepper my pale arm around a thin red scratch, but I barely notice them since I’m consumed with the fire scorching under my skin.
“Freckles,” I say, pulling my arm away, unsure where the scratch came from.
“Those aren’t freckles,” Erik says. “Are you being careful during training?”
“I don’t remember hurting myself, but it’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt,” I assure him.
“What’ll ya have?” a waitress asks in possibly the most bored tone ever. She could pass for a stewardess in Arras except her skirt stops too short, revealing more of her lengthy legs than I’m used to. Her head cocks to the side, examining the small platform stage behind her.
“What do you have?” Erik asks.
“Same as everywhere, hon,” she says with a shrug, her eyes still occupied elsewhere. “Gin. Whiskey. Moonshine.”
“Moonshine?” he asks.
“I didn’t make up the name,” she says.
She couldn’t have, I think. She’s probably never seen the moon. I can’t imagine she’s gone exploring past the Interface’s border.
“Gin. Do you have tonic?”
“Sure, sure.” She doesn’t write anything down, but I hear her call out the order to the stubby bartender.
“So what now?” Erik asks, turning his attention back to me. His voice is low.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure.”
“You know, your mother was probably toying with you,” Erik says gently.
“I know.” But the words are thick on my tongue. I don’t like thinking of the monster wearing my mother’s face.
The waitress plops down two smudged glasses and asks what else we need.
“There was a place around here,” Erik says. “A loophole. Do you know what happened to it?”
“The refugee shelter? Sure,” she says with a smack of her lips. “It’s gone now.”
“Yes, we assumed that,” Erik says in a measured tone. “Do you know where it was?”
“Yeah, next door, down the stairs. But it got closed up a long time ago.”
“Who closed it?” Erik asks.
“Owner, so far as I know. She still lives there. She rents this place, too. She comes in for a drink now and then, but she keeps to herself.”
“Do you know her name?” I ask.
“Nah, not really my job,” she says, her eyes elsewhere again. “You need anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Erik says.
“If it was next door,” I start, but my thoughts are too jumbled for me to continue speaking. It could still be there, and if the owner is there, we could ask her. I know Erik is thinking the same things.
“It’s risky,” he says.
He’s right. It’s dangerous to go asking around after the loophole, especially knowing nothing about the owner.
“To almost-solutions,” Erik says, raising his glass. We clink, but I don’t take a long draft like he does. It’s too strong for me. I take a small sip and let it burn my throat before setting the glass back down.
“Strong,” I say with a grimace.
“You didn’t have any dinner,” he reminds me. “You should probably take it easy on that—not everyone can handle liquor like Cormac.”
“I have no desire to drink like Cormac,” I say, but the conversation jogs my memory. I hadn’t eaten dinner because Erik was already done with his and playing with the digifile I’d brought from Arras. I stare at hi
m and he responds by raising an eyebrow.
“The digifile,” I say in a quiet voice. “I’ve always wondered where Enora got that program. The tracking program.”
Erik’s arm drops from my shoulders and he leans away from me for a moment.
“It was you,” I say when he doesn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, Adelice. I should have convinced Enora to drop it when she came to me. If I had done more, she might be alive now.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with her death,” I say, but then it strikes me that might not be true. Erik is a Tailor. A fact I keep forgetting.
“I didn’t,” he assures me, as though he can read my mind. “At that point, things were out of control. I think Cormac suspected me after the State of the Guild.”
“You finally made an impression on him,” I say. Cormac had written Erik off early on during my time at the Coventry.
“Adelice,” Erik says, taking a deep breath, “I worked for Cormac.”
“We all worked for Cormac.”
“No,” he says with emphasis, “I worked for Cormac. He had Tailors all over the coventries, spying on the operations and keeping tabs on Spinsters.”
“And you were keeping tabs on me?” He told me that during our last hour in the Coventry, but I haven’t brought it up since then. Now I wish I had.
“Would you let me off the hook if I said it was really complicated?” he asks.
I look at Erik then, measuring him up. I can appreciate secrets and regrets. I have plenty of my own, and I’ve decided not to let them dictate who I am. Erik deserves the same chance.
“Actually, I would,” I say.
A chaotic mix of instruments starts playing. No, not playing. Warming up. Each musician individually tuning his instrument, filling the air with a clash of rhythm. The solar lights around us dim even lower, and then the band starts to play. It’s nothing like what I expect to hear. The song is vibrant, alive. The notes dip and bounce and a few couples make their way to the small space in front of the stage. Once they’re there, they become as alive as the music. One waves her hands in front of her, kicking her feet out behind her. Her partner watches for a moment and then joins in. Another woman spins away from her lover, her skirt fanning around her. In Arras, we only had slow songs. Elegant, carefully timed waltzes or quiet songs to sway to. Nothing like this.
“Want to try it?” Erik asks.
“I’m not sure I’m that rhythmically gifted,” I admit.
We watch for a few more minutes, and then Erik slides out of the booth and offers his hand to me. I bite my lip, pondering the likelihood that I’ll wind up splayed on the dance floor on my butt. But Erik leans forward and says, “I won’t let you fall.”
I put my hand in his and he pulls me from the booth. He keeps his eyes on me. He doesn’t close his hand over mine, but I feel something weighty in his gaze. It never leaves me. When we get to the floor, his fingers close around my hand and he throws me out with great force. I’m not wearing anything that can fan out or impress anyone, but I’m sort of thankful. At least in pants and boots I can stay on my feet. Erik grins at me, and I narrow my eyes, but then I giggle. I can’t help it. I feel his hand tug on mine and before I know it I roll back into him. My other hand meets his waiting palm without a thought and when we touch everything is electric. Full of life. I pull out of his embrace and spin under his arms. Then I attempt to mimic the woman who’s kicking up her heels.
I fail.
We both spend more time laughing than dancing, but I feel light, like I’m full of air. Like I don’t have a care in the world. For a moment, I’m truly happy.
Then the vibrance of the music fades down into a soft rhythm. A woman steps forward and begins to sing. Her voice is low and hoarse, but it’s beautiful. She sings of love, of belonging, of loss. My heart gives a thump in my chest. I can relate to this song.
Erik pulls me back to him, and I let my head drop to his shoulder. His arms curve around my back and we sway softly. Neither of us speaks. I think of the night back in Arras when we waltzed in the garden. How his hand felt on the bare skin of my back. The moonlight painting his hair silver.
“Are you feeling okay?” Erik asks softly.
I blush. “Yes. It’s warm in here.”
“It is and we were really, uh, dancing a minute ago. Do you want to sit?”
I shake my head. It’s okay to dance. It’s okay to linger in this moment because of the music and the mood. I won’t have any excuses once we sit back down.
Erik’s hand rests on my shoulder and I curl my arms a bit more tightly around his neck. I know we’re both feeling the same thing. I can sense it from him, like the low humming energy of a solar panel. It comes off him in waves—the things we can’t say to each other.
Something’s changed between us, but it’s not until I look up at his face that I understand. I see the curve of his jaw with its trace of stubble. The way his nose bends slightly to the left—not enough to be called crooked but not perfect. For a moment I wish we were in the moonlight so his hair would be silver and his eyes would be gray, and when he looks at me, I see what I feel reflected back. We don’t say anything, and I pull away from him, escaping with excuses of needing the powder room.
But I can’t escape this for long.
TWENTY-NINE
I STUMBLE INTO THE POWDER ROOM AND splash water on my neck. The mirror reflects a girl with flushed cheeks and tumbling chignon. I pin up my loose hair, but the redness stays on my cheeks.
“Remember who you are,” I whisper to the girl in the mirror. My fingers trace the techprint on my wrist.
No matter what has changed, I can’t do this to Jost. I won’t do it to him. It’s not who I am.
I smooth down my glossy tunic and tug my boots up a bit. The club is warmer when I leave the powder room. More people have found their way inside despite it being well past curfew. A group of men watch me as I cross the dance floor to our booth. They don’t bother hiding their stares, and I realize with a sinking feeling that they’re clad in pressed slacks and vests with rolled-up sleeves and gold pocket watches. The only other person here dressed as smartly as they are is Erik. On Earth only one group of people has access to such stylish clothing and expensive accessories: Sunrunners. Even if they’re here for their own pleasure, they’ve noticed me. I’m not supposed to be off the estate grounds let alone running around in bars.
I slip into the high-backed booth, grateful for the anonymity of the pocked red vinyl sides. “We’ve been spotted.”
“Oh yeah?” Erik pops his head over the booth and lets out a low whistle.
“How long until this gets back to Dante?” I wonder out loud.
A tumbler of clear liquor slams down on our table and I look up to find the answer to my question.
“That was even faster than I imagined,” Erik mutters.
“So I say to myself, ‘I’m going to check on Adelice. Talk it out, because I’m mature and responsible and so is she,’ and do you know what I found?” Dante asks as he plops onto the bench across from us.
“I bet you’re going to tell us,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. I’m not the least bit sorry for leaving the estate.
“Do you actively look for trouble?” Dante asks. “Or are you stupid?”
Erik’s arm pulls away from my shoulder, landing on the table as he leans toward Dante. “We’re not Kincaid’s property, and you would do well to remember that. We had business in the Icebox. That’s all you need to know.”
“Business in the Icebox, huh? Looks to me like you’re drinking gin in a speakeasy,” Dante says.
“Let’s go, Erik.” I scoot across the squeaking vinyl bench, but Dante holds his hand up.
“I’m sorry for what I said in the garden. You have to understand how hard it is for me to trust a Guild-trained Tailor,” Dante says.
“Half of Kincaid’s men were Guild, and you trust them,” I point out.
“That’s not entirely true.” But Dante doesn’
t offer to elucidate for us.
“Why wouldn’t I trust Erik?” I ask, my voice growing with the clamor of the music. “He trusts me enough to tell me—”
“Ad,” Erik stops me. “It’s okay. Your father is right.”
“He’s not my father,” I say.
The table falls quiet, the music invading the silence between us. No one knows what to say—least of all me.
“I don’t want to tell you what to do, but if you leave without me, they’ll follow you,” Dante warns. “What did you come here looking for?”
I take a deep breath, willing my words not to shake with rage. “We’re looking for the loophole.”
“The loophole?” Dante repeats slowly.
“My mother told me about it,” I admit. Dante sinks back against the booth and takes a long swig of his drink.
“She’s trying to cause trouble,” Dante says.
“I know that,” I say. “It doesn’t mean I can’t learn anything from her.”
Dante’s eyes swivel to the door and back toward the dance floor. “We need to get out of here.”
“Why should we go anywhere with you?” Erik asks. His hand closes possessively over mine, but I draw it back.
“Because I have something to show you.”
Erik lifts my mink coat for me, and I shrug it over my shoulders. We both know we have to go with Dante. As we exit the speakeasy, my eyes stay on the ground. I expect my father to drag us straight back to the estate, but instead of leading us out into the quiet, black streets of the grey market, Dante gestures for us to follow him down a narrow alley wedged between buildings.
“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” Erik whispers.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” I ask, but for once I keep my hand threaded through his.
“Oh, I have not had enough gin for this kind of adventure,” Erik says.
We stop near a full-to-brimming Dumpster, and Dante glances around us. I doubt he can see anyone in the ink-black night, but thankfully that means they can’t see us either. Dante pushes on a stone and it sinks back into the wall as a slab slides over, revealing a hidden door.
“Someone is making a killing building hidden passages,” I mutter.
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